Coming Home (Untitled)

I stood at a place where several pathways met
And all about was desolate and bare
With rocks and boulders strewn on every side
I looked below and saw a man all—bent
His eyes cast down
He counted beads and stumbled as he climbed
And to my right a woman with dark skin
Her children clinging to her — a baby at her breast
They are too thin and their bellies are puffed out
I look again and see a man
A man with sorrow in his eyes
He too cradles a child
The child is limp — without life
The man weeps and his tears fall down
He staggers on
He cannot see that where his sorrow falls
The barren earth is fed
And dormant seeds spring forth
And lovely flowers blossom where he goes

I lift my eyes
And blinded by the light.
The hill is high
And the plain below looks pleasant and inviting
I turn again
This burden is too great!
This cross is raw and heavy and my back is weak
I have no choice!
I have no doubt!
You are there-and waiting
By little, faltering steps
We will all find you
And our tragedy all apart
Find Peace and sweet tranquility

Dear God we’re almost there
We’re coming home.

by Lorna Bain — December 29th, 1985